Independence

The suits are sneaking through from the slits of your fingers,
My feet are wooden soles, and I can’t move at all without aching with agony,
The road is so cluttered now, broken dreams littered on the sidewalk;
And what do I do without a map to trace a destination for me?
I’m on my own, and I know this isn’t a postcard,
But (P.S., wishing you were here)